


This Is Me Trying

by CourageousJS



Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Humor, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, jamie x claire
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-26
Packaged: 2021-03-27 14:55:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30124533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CourageousJS/pseuds/CourageousJS
Summary: What happens when someone wrecks all your plans in the best way?
Relationships: Claire Beauchamp/Jamie Fraser
Comments: 90
Kudos: 164





	1. Intro

Hi there, 

I'm Sarah. This isn't my first fic but it IS a new and different one. I wanted to include a brief note along with my

***TW throughout for self-harm and suicidal thoughts***

This fic idea absorbed my mind and soul much like Mirrorball and (although I've tried to subdue it) it is demanding to be written down. 

This fic also has a song inspiration, you can listen to it [here](https://youtu.be/9bdLTPNrlEg)

I feel like the hardest part of going through trauma is never being able to tell people the full extent of what happened because nobody wants to know the full details-if any.

So you are left with secrets and scars forever and no one truly knows the full extent of how badly you've been hurt.

You don't want to make people upset or angry but you desperately need someone to really understand.

_It's a really lonely place to be._

This fic is a brutally honest look at healing in the wake of trauma that shakes you to your very core.

We will seek to answer these questions that permeate my mind:

What happens when you can’t catch your breath, or when the memory takes your breath away? 

What can be strong enough to kickstart a life on hold?

Take my hand. Let’s immerse ourselves in the beginning of something new. Before we start, unclench your jaw and breathe in deeply with me.

Let's go. 


	2. I'm (not) okay

It’s a known fact that women are supposed to be sad when their husbands die. 

I’m not sad though. 

Sometimes I sit in my garage and leave the car running. 

Just for a minute. 

Or two. 

In the darkness, I imagine what it would be like if it didn’t take hours... 

What it would be like to just…

Sleep. 

I always turn my car off because…. Well, my elderly neighbor, Beverly, wouldn’t be too keen on finding me like that. 

She’s a busybody by nature, the kind of old woman who put bluing in her hair and still wears that Avon perfume from 1997. Oh and the wide hoops or clip-on earrings. One set for each holiday. 

She would be the one to find me. 

She’s nice enough but I know she worries about me. 

I can see it in her hazel eyes when she asks me, “How’re you doing, kid?” 

And we make small talk around the mailbox before each retreating to our quiet little lives.

None the wiser. 

Everyone here worries, but no one really comes up to talk to me about it. 

Well, I take it back. 

There was the one time when Joan, my other neighbor, came to ask if I was ok. 

She heard me rage-screaming in my kitchen. 

Yeah. 

I’m (not) okay. 

It’s the PTSD but I tell her it’s grief and she goes, “Oooh.” 

The pity “Oooh”. 

The one I usually hate but this time, I welcome. 

It’s easier to explain a widow’s rage than it is for me to explain my PTSD. 

Women are supposed to be sad when their husbands die. 

I enter my quiet flat and take my shoes off. 

Grocery shopping for one. 

Pathetic. 

I always buy salad, like stuff to make a salad. 

I should take care of myself better. 

But I don’t. 

It’s one of the many reasons to hate myself. 

But the crisper drawer in my fridge laughs at me as I pull out the faded, wilted head of romaine from last week to replace it with the green and healthy-looking head of romaine for this week. 

The road to hell is paved with good intentions and old heads of romaine lettuce. 

I’m greeted by a loud meow, more like a yell. 

Adso is nine and doesn’t give a fuck anymore. 

When he was a kitten, he would mew softly and follow me everyone but now he’s leveled up like some kind of Pokemon and follows me like he has equal share in my life and dwelling.

Rules don’t apply anymore. 

If I yell at him for being on the counter he’ll just look at me with his yellow eyes like a bat from hell and meow back at me like, “And? What’re you gonna do about it, huh? Huh?” 

He’s got too much personality.

A cat-dog. 

He’s the real reason I went to the store at all. 

He was out of his wet food. 

I knew I’d never hear the end of it if I put dry *gasp* _dry_ food in his bowl in the morning. 

“Just you and me bud.” 

I walk back to my room and take off my bra, after a quick, quiet shower I change into my nighttime pajamas.

Not to be confused with the daytime ones I wore when I worked from home. 

I look in the mirror and scrub off my only makeup, my mascara, and start layering on serums and creams.

At 31, I have both acne and wrinkles.

Aging is fun, kids. 

If your idea of fun is practically embalming yourself before bed each night.

I promised my therapist I’d do some kind of selfcare bullshit. 

Bath bombs feel too girly, but potions to reverse the hands of time? Now that sounds witchy.

Perfect. 

Light me up, Puritans. I am now a witch. 

A hydrated witch. Good luck with that. 

I put on my old Gap tee, it used to be Frank’s. A ringer tee with a green collar and raglan sleeves. There were holes in it now but I didn’t care. It was onion-skin see-through ultra-washed super-comfortable cotton. The kind of comfy that happens to a shirt right before it utterly disintegrates in the wash. 

Pouring myself a bowl of cinnamon crunch cereal, I go to the couch to sit next to Adso. Clicking on television, I look at the wide screen blankly. 

“Murder documentary?” I look at Adso who is licking himself seductively. “Or murder mystery?” 

I flip on Poirot.

I’ve seen them all hundreds of times, but there was something comforting about that Belgian accent talking of his “little gray cells” and “bon ami, Hastings”. 

I don’t watch new things anymore. 

I lack the energy to invest in new things lately. 

Maybe I’lll make it to bed tonight. It’s not uncommon for me to pass out in front of the tv.

I don’t go out anymore either. 

The last time I went out after 9 pm I’d forgotten to take out the bins. 

Time is a funny thing. 

It moves until it doesn’t. 

Until all life as you know it just stops and you’re expected to go through the motions. 

The hand of the clock breathes a sigh of relief as you gradually resume normal activities such as showering, cleaning, going to the shops to get food for your cat-dog. 

And yet. 

For you, it doesn’t budge. 

I’ve been stuck in this perpetual purgatory for almost a year. 

Has it really been that long? The change of the seasons tells me it has. 

Merry Christmas, hide the eggnog. Pop the champagne, happy new year. Claire’s drunk again out of her mind in the backyard. 

Yeah. Family functions have been fun. 

Ugh, family. 

I try not to think about the copious amount of texts I’ve been ignoring from my mom. 

Maybe I’ll just say yes to that family dinner and go and pretend things are fine so she leaves me be for another month or two. 

Sometimes it works. 

My head gets heavy on the couch. 

I tell myself that lie again, the one where I tell myself I’m just resting my eyes and then wake up at 6 am with the worst neck pain ever. 

Tomorrow will be just like today, and today was just like yesterday. 

Nothing new. 

I like that. 

No surprises. 

Even better. 

I’m (not) okay. 

  
  



	3. Damnit, Kendra.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've been having a hard time adjusting.

“Damnit, Kendra.” 

I grin like an idiot when my phone buzzes with a notification. 

My co-workers and I actually have a meme with the words “Damnit, Kendra” floating around between us all on Microsoft Teams. 

There used to be an actual Kendra. 

She got fired because she didn’t do her job, nor did she care. It was kind of hilarious to watch the crash and burn. 

Does that make me a mean girl? 

Probably. 

Low key, all of us call center representatives admired her for not giving a flying fuck. 

Now when it’s clear other employees aren’t making use of correct protocol the “Damnit, Kendra” memes make their circulation. It's about as much entertainment as I get these days. 

Don’t get me wrong, I love helping people who are obviously trying to help themselves here. If you’re new and struggling, I gotchu boo. 

I, too, was once young and naïve and thinking the world was a better place than it is now. 

When I was in college, I used to work retail. 

Yup, sold makeup the whole shebang. I would do makeovers for rich bitches and get commission and all that jazz. 

Retail was a fucking cakewalk to what I’m doing now. 

When I gave up my job at the firm I went on unemployment for a grand total of two months before I was randomly hit with an email from a job posting site asking if I’d be down to work from home for the government. 

Sure. 

Key words there: work from home. 

You mean I wouldn’t have to leave my house and possibly have panic attacks on the highway to get to work? Only to face courtrooms full of angry people looking at me not to crumble while I present emotional cases to a judge and jury? 

Hell yes. 

I spent one-too-many mornings late to court because I was hyperventilating on the side of the road with my hazard lights on. Blasting the air conditioning in my face, trying to blink furiously while my tears worked their way through the Marc Jacobs mascara I bought in an expensive attempt to dissuade myself from ruining my makeup by crying. 

That phase lasted about a month before it was clear that mascara alone wouldn't stop the tears from flowing. 

I remember reading somewhere that breathing in intense smells could help stop a panic attack. So there I’d be, side of the road, sniffing my highly scented hand sanitizer or essential oils if I remembered to put them in my purse… like some kinda goddamn huffing hippie. I’m honestly shocked no one called the cops on me for doing drugs. 

By the way, no ….no it doesn’t work. Peppermint oil can fuck right off. 

Enter working for the department of the treasury. The pay was less… a lot less… but for working from home, the job came with fancy government benefits and honestly it wasn’t the worst. 

I thought retail made me jaded. 

I laugh my ass off at that now. 

Now I deal with the general public who thinks the government works for them personally. 

Karen? Oh I know her. She knows me, too. So does her cousin, Barbara, and her Aunt Peggy who call me up just to scream at me and tell me what a fucked job the government is doing. Like I am personally responsible. 

Sometimes it gets to me. 

If I had a soul it’d be worse. 

I used to care. 

It’s my job to help the public get the help they need but after hearing scam after scam of people playing the system and with my past as an attorney, it’s hard to hear the lies and still care. 

I’ve learned to be firm but polite. How to sound feminine so my male callers will go easy on me. How to be a hardass when others try to boss me around. 

I play all roles here. 

It pays the bills. 

Do I see myself doing this forever? Not really. 

Then again, do I see myself actually here for forever? 

I’m not going to answer that. 

_Macabre._

I like pronouncing that word. The ‘r’ rolls off the tongue and makes me feel like I’m French or something. 

I’m thinking about that as I clock out for lunch and head to the kitchen to throw in a pre-made quinoa bowl. 

Next to the fancy new head of lettuce you’d think I’m practically Ina Garten herself. 

Barefoot Contessa, except in my kitchen looking out the window to nowhere as I call it. The window faces the wall of my red brick garage and it is currently misted over due to the unseasonably cold rain outside. 

I pretend I’m looking out onto a Tuscan villa with vineyards Bacchus himself would be jealous of, when I hear a sharp knock at the door. 

Fuck. 

I’m not expecting anyone. 

Not today, not period. 

Oh well, maybe it’s Amazon and they’ll leave. 

I like my mail carrier. 

I call him Kenneth but I don’t actually know his name. He looks like a Kenneth. He knows to leave the package at the doorstep and to get the fuck out like the pizza delivery guy on Home Alone. 

Good old Kenneth. 

My heart is in my throat, I feel like I’m about to be sick as I hear the knock again. 

This is not Kenneth delivering my weekly supply of ground coffee that I suckle down like a greedy baby with a stimulant dependency. 

Fuckity fuck fuck. I’ll have to go check the door. 

They sound insistent. 

Maybe it’s finally my turn to be on a murder documentary. 

Fuck it, Claire. Go to the door. You’re a grownass adult. 

I look down at my outfit. Oversized Frank sweater and skinny jeans. No bra. 

Oh well, I guess I can hide behind the door so they don’t see my nonexistent tits… 

Ok, now THAT was a bang. Rude. 

I swear to God I’ll kill them. 

I skitter past the kitchen and up to the front door. 

Fuck me and my plans of being artsy. 

I was an idiot when I decided to put faux stained glass window cling all over my door because now I couldn’t see who it was. I actually have to fucking open it. 

“Coming!” I call out. 

Why is my voice so high? 

My palms are actually sweating here. 

Why is this shadow so big? Is fucking Shrek standing outside? 

Ok, Claire. You got this. 

I take in a deep breath while I unbolt the three locks I have up on the inside of my door. 

Shrek must think they’re at fucking Gringott’s bank from Harry Potter by the sounds of all the locks my shaking fingers are turning. 

I open the door like a vault and poke my head into the crack. 

There’s a goddamn giant outside my door. 

Standing there in the freezing rain, soaked and with massive shoulders that were at least two feet across. 

Instead of Shrek, the man in front of me has a stoic viking face that must be the male equivalent of resting bitch face. At least what face I could make out under the hat. 

He’s bundled up against the cold drizzle outside and all I can see is his red wavy hair poking out from under his gray cap and the cloud of vapour. His jacket is pulled so far up his face I can barely see it. 

“Maintenance, Ma’am. Okay if I come in?” 

Ok, first, the audacity. I know I have zero makeup on and a few gray hairs at my temples but to call me _ma’am_ over _miss_ still insults my vanity a little. 

Secondly, come in?!

“Fuck no. I didn’t call maintenance.” 

There’s an awkward silence between us and I glare at him, my mind going to about several different things I could grab at a moment’s notice should he try to barge his way in here. Something tells me the old, burgundy, wood-handled umbrella wouldn't even phase Shrek. 

Maintenance my ass. 

“Begging yer pardon, Miss.” 

There’s the Miss. Okay he picks up quickly. I’ll give him that. Also, the stoic viking has an accent I take a moment to place but it’s vaguely Scottish. 

“It was yer neighbor who made the call, Beverly? She had me come to check out a leak in her faucet and I wanted to make sure it wasn’a coming in through the ceiling here.” 

Damnit, Beverly. 

“Jesus. Fine then, but be quick about it. I’m on lunch and have to get back to work soon.” 

Cold and wet, Shrek gives a huff and nods sharply. 

Shit. No bra. 

I totally wasn’t planning on letting a total stranger into my house. 

I make a quick attempt at crossing my arms to cover my nipples, now rock-hard in the cold. Just then, a black flash of lightning zooms out of the crack in the door that widens as the man turns to pick up his tool bag and I open the door further to let him in. 

“Fuck!” I scream. “Adso come back!” 

I forget the stranger and the fact that my door is wide open at this point as I panic and shriek after my cat-dog as he makes a run for it. I see it in slow motion, the little bastard re-enacts Chariots of Fire as he makes a run for it. Head back, hair streaming in the wind before it gets plastered down all around him with the cold rain. It would be majestic if I weren’t so mad at him for doing this to me right now. 

Little fucker is having the time of his life with no intention of coming back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adso running like 


	4. Je Déteste Le Froid

I hate the cold. 

Despise it with every fiber of my being. 

My first phrase in French class was “je déteste le froid” or “I hate the cold”. 

I taught it to myself and repeated it often in the fifteen years since high school. 

I literally want to hibernate each winter until my seasonal depression goes away and is replaced with a fancy new, _spring_ depression. Or as my therapist would call it, Major Depressive Disorder. It’s best friends with my PTSD. They go out together sometimes and wreck my life. 

It’s good, it's all good. Super fun when that happens. 

The only thing worse than the cold is cold rain and Adso was currently racing to my backyard area behind my garage unaffected by the bone-chilling water droplets falling down from the sky. 

Maybe I shouldn’t have screamed his name, it seems to have only fueled his desire to run away from me and leave me behind like everyone else. Fucking traitor. Especially after I did a special shop run just for his food. 

I grab my green wellies by the door and run out after him in the freezing rain. Boobs bouncing helter-skelter and unchaperoned as I run after my cat-dog who darts around the back of the flat and makes a beeline up the steep hill behind the garage. 

It’s freezing. Freezing is an understatement, it’s hell frozen over. 

I dash off after Adso. 

“Here boy, here kitty kitty. Come to mama, honey.” 

It takes me a second to realize Stoic Viking man is behind me and did me the favor of closing the green door to my flat in case any other hell-beasts broke loose. 

I bet I’m giving him quite the show as the rain pelts my Frank sweater making it stick to my skin in the way acrylic-blend fabric does- uncomfortably tight. 

Adso’s large, yellow eyes widen and then go to pinpoints as he looks over his little shoulder and makes a giant leap up into the old willow tree at the edge of the backyard on the steep hill. Damnit. 

Stoic Viking whistles between his teeth like he’s calling a cab or something. Or maybe a dog. 

“He’s a cat, not fucking Lassie.” 

I retort sharply over my shoulder as my teeth start to rattle in my head. 

“I’m just tryin’ tae help ya, Miss.” 

Stoic Viking holds his hands up and I catch a hint of a chuckle in his voice, smooth and low. 

It irritates the hell out of me. 

Here I am, actually petrified my one friend is leaving me forever and this asshole is laughing about it? 

I race to the giant tree and try in vain to get up into the branches after Adso as he scrambles his little fluffy butt away from me and pretends to be deaf. 

“Lift me up, I can’t get him.” 

“Excuse me, Miss?” 

“You heard me.” I turn to look at Stoic Viking, really look at him.

He can’t be much older than me but by the looks of it he’s built like a wall and can lift me up to get my damned dog-cat inside where he belongs. 

I can feel my hair run down and stick to my forehead in dark brown ringlets, I grab my arms to myself and cross them in front of me trying to hide the area he glanced at … and thought I didn’t notice. 

“Yeah yeah, enjoy the free wet t-shirt show, buddy. It’s your fault my cat got out.” 

“My fault?!” Stoic Viking laughs without joy. “Ye shouldn’t have left the door open if ye knew he was a darter…” 

“I didn’t know, okay? Besides I like never have anyone over so….. Yeah _your_ fault, Mister “Maintenance” man.” 

Okay maybe doing the whole air quotes was a bit far but this guy is pissing me off. 

Help me. 

“Okay, fine. Jesus Mary and Joseph, woman.” 

He adjusts his hat in the rain and I catch a glimpse of deep blue eyes rolling in exasperation as he bends down and picks me up with ease. 

Oh. 

I forgot what that felt like. 

No, not being tossed around by a man but … touched. By a human. 

In spite of myself, I stammer and point into the tree. 

“He’s over there, think you can get me close?” 

Adso meows loudly and looks down at me from a ‘Y’ in the branches expectantly. 

He’s stuck. 

Stoic Viking man lifts me with a solid grunt higher, his hands on my ankles as he holds me up over his head. 

He really is a giant. I didn’t think I’d be able to reach my runaway beast but I found him at eye-level. 

I try really hard not to think about a strange man's hands on my legs right now. 

Or how the last bit of human touch I received was a hug from my sister last Christmas. I had stiffened up like a board and almost needed to go puke. That's when I hit the eggnog hard and went out to the patio to breathe. 

I turn my focus back to Adso, my heart is racing and I'm desperate to get to him. I try to cover the shaking of my voice as I call out to him encouraging him to come closer. 

“Come on baby, yeah got yourself in a right mess, huh? Not so much fun running away only to get stuck you little jerk face.” 

I grit my teeth as I extricate the wet ball of fluff from the tree and the man sets us both down gently on the ground. 

At least I have Adso gripped tightly in my arms to cover how sheer the sweater is. 

I march back to the front door and go inside quickly, letting Adso down and scolding him. 

“Bad boy! You scared me to death. Never again, do you hear me? After all I’ve done for you?” 

Adso ran a few feet onto the carpet and plopped own indignantly to groom himself giving me the death-glare for interrupting his obviously very fun adventure. Most excitement either of us have seen in a while. 

“Erm… about that leak?” 

I jump out of my skin. 

For being so big, he sure is quiet. 

“Jesus. Yes, yes go look.” 

I would have words with Beverly later… if I get up the courage to talk to her about it. For God’s sakes the woman could give me a head’s up. It’s not like she doesn’t have a landline with my number for emergencies. 

I know I don’t do much with my life but Jesus, Bev. I could have been dressing out of the shower or worse… having one of my crying panic attacks on the kitchen floor. Give a girl some warning. 

Stoic Viking closes the door behind him, eyeing Adso uncertainly. 

I went into the bathroom in the hall to quickly change out of the soaked sweater and throw on an old button-down flannel shirt. Thank god my bra is hanging on the back of the door knob. 

I quickly pop it on and shuffle my wet skin into the new shirt before coming back out again. 

Stoic Viking man and I almost bump into each other in the foyer causing me to jump- again. 

How is he so quiet?? 

Maybe I should have asked for credentials… after all, I have no idea who this man is and-

As if reading my mind, he hands over a small, white pointy-edged business card to me from between his calloused fingers that appear to be permanently stained with motor oil of some kind. 

“Looks good for now, but it was quite the leak, ye ken. Here’s my card, call me if ye notice anything later or tonight. I fixed the leak with Bev but there could still be some damage that shows up later if it was worse than we knew.” 

He runs a hand through his hair before replacing the worn newsboys cap over his head. I catch a glimpse of auburn waves and a scruffy beard with blonde hints in it. 

Before I’m able to retort anything, he clears his throat and makes his way over to the door. 

“Oh and sorry about the “cat”, I dinnae ken ye had one.” 

I open my mouth in indignation at his air quotes in reference to Adso but then shut my mouth again because he closed the door and was gone. The hulking mass of a shadow made its way down the walk away from my flat and I was alone. 

To be fair, Adso is a huge 12 pound Maine Coon mix. Not a lot of people have seen such a big cat in their life but to me he's my baby and likes to sit on my head all the time. To be honest, he looks more Wookiee than cat. 

But still. Air quotes. Clearly a jab at me for “maintenance”. 

Cocky bastard. 

My heart is still beating quickly from the ordeal and I pick Adso up with both arms and give him a squeeze. He yells at me in disapproval. 

“Yeah yeah, love you too you little jerk.” 

I rip off some paper towels and dry my hair looking up at the ceiling of my kitchen over the sink. Nothing so far. 

I look at the business card in my hands: 

J. Fraser 

Lallybroch Real Estate Investments

Underneath is a number and a brief note about him being licensed, bonded and insured along with some other details I don’t care about. 

“Well well, J. Fraser.” 

His name is probably Jerry or John or Jimmy or something. 

_Jehoshaphat_

Yep. Definitely a Jehoshaphat. 

All I know is, I better never fucking see him again. 

“Guy's an asshole,” I mumble, making a face and air quotations to Adso as he cleans himself unceremoniously on my living room floor. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meet cute, wet shirt, physical touch and an asshole cat. What can possibly go wrong? 


	5. Piano Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I can't live  
> With or without you 
> 
> -U2

_Hey Hey Lady Jane_

  
  


My phone lights up the nightstand in the black at 10:13 pm on Thursday. 

I am fully embalmed in my serums and watching Wentworth on Netflix, completely engrossed in an especially good prison fight. 

Weave was being pulled, Red was on top and it was going down. 

I glance over at my dark android screen. 

If it were anyone else I’d let it go but I hadn’t heard from Joe in a while. 

He always called me Lady Jane, even back when we were in law school.

Joe was the only person I was still in contact with at our old firm. 

If anyone on earth deserved the title of being my human best friend, it would be Joe. 

He was the only one who stood up for me when it happened. 

He showed up at my flat about a week later after asking if I’d had dinner, Thai takeout in hand and more than ready to ignore the state of my place as we sat on the couch and talked shit and watched reality television together. 

I could just “be” with Joe and that was big. 

Like, really big. 

Maybe it’s because he’s an immigrant himself, but he really gets the whole outsider thing. That’s probably what makes him such a good defense attorney. He always goes up for the hard cases, the ones where they can’t always pay him but he takes them anyway. 

I love him. 

Not in the “I’d fuck you” kinda way, but in the honest, joyful, I-would-die-for-you, best friend way. 

He loves me too. 

I appreciate he’s never once tried anything inappropriate with me, either. 

I miss our coffee runs, our court gossip and general shenanigans. 

That’s why I jump to answer his text. 

_Hey love, what’s up_. 

His reply comes back faster than I’m expecting it to be. The little ellipses in the corner of my screen light up and I know he’s frantically typing back. 

_Not much. Hey you busy tomorrow night?_

Ugh. I smell a social obligation. 

_Um….why?_

_Cause I need a hot date, that’s why._

I snort. 

In your dreams, Abernathy. You and I both know I’m the last person in that black book. So what gives? 

_Oookay...._

  
  


_So I have this thing…._

More ellipses 

_You might wanna get that looked at…_

_HAH. Not funny. Anyway I’ll be doing this open mic thing at a bar and I’d actually love it if I knew one person in the audience wouldn’t boo me soooo waddaya say, Lady Jane?_

I roll my eyes and growl a little. He knows this is SO not my scene. 

Damnit, Claire. Come on. The least you can do for the guy is to show up and not be a dick. 

I really, reaaally want to say no and to everyone else I would, but it’s him. 

More ellipses. 

UGH. 

The only thing I can't resist is a bad pun and he knows it. Sonofabitch. 

_Okay fine, I’ll be there. What time?_

………

  
  


My stomach is in knots. 

All day.

To the point where I had to take an antacid with lunch just to make it through work without throwing up. 

Is this old age? Am I that geriatric that I need medication to handle the tomato in my pre-portioned quinoa bowl? 

God that sounds so sad. 

I don’t know if Joe realizes this, but going out at all for me is a big fucking deal. 

I have my maps pulled up on my phone to the bar he told me about, plotted out how to get there avoiding all highways and mentally made note of when I should leave home to get there with post-work traffic flow.

I’m a planner. 

I like to plan things. 

  
  


I have my little black cocktail dress and red flats ready the night before. Nothing fancy. I pick out my favorite necklace, a simple string of gold with a square, small garnet in the middle. 

I like to make an effort, I mean, it is the first time I’m going out in nearly two months. 

I breathe in and out deeply as I’m getting ready and try to remind myself of the mindfulness techniques I learned in therapy. Five things I can see, four things I can touch, three things I can hear, two things I can smell, etc. 

I take a look at my thirty-something skin in the mirror and sigh in relief.

The witchcraft must be working because I don't look a day over twenty-two. 

Bobbi Brown don't let me down.

My puns certainly haven't gotten better. 

How do I look the same? How has my face and body not magically morphed into a fraction of the fractures I feel within my soul? 

I take my time on the back roads and mentally curse myself out for feeling panicked around a hairpin bend in the road. 

I arrive at The Trinity gastropub a little early, the sun is barely down but the parking lot is packed. I see a spot on the street and maneuver my little SUV in gracefully. 

I let out a deep breath that sounds shaky in my ears as I pray to God I don’t embarrass Joe in public. 

I doubt any of our firm will be there, he knows better to invite me to things where they might be. 

I grab my lemon-yellow wristlet and head inside. I see Joe by the bar. 

In the dim blue lights, he waves over to me and smiles his huge, glow-in-the-dark smile that I love so much. The one that says everything is alright. 

I relax a little and walk over, bracing myself as he goes for a hug but he remembers that I like my space. 

He holds up a hand.

“Awkward fist bump?” 

“Awkward fist bump.” I reply. 

“Kapow.” Joe smiles and spins around showing off his blue suit. 

“Nice, very chic.” 

“Hey it’s the best I can do without Lady Jane replying to my texts over what colors go with aubergine.” He points to his dress shoes and I laugh out loud. 

I had totally forgotten to reply to his texts a week or two ago. 

“You’re incorrigible, you know that, right?” 

“Naturally.” 

Joe hands me a drink as the bartender brings two over, both mixed the same. 

“Gin martini, extra olives and dirty like you like it.” 

Of course he bloody well remembered. 

I hide my hesitation to drink again but Joe didn’t know about Christmas. 

How could he know? My family knew none of my friends and I like to keep it that way... 

Of course Joe knows OF them but that's it. He's the only one that does. 

“Cheers,” I clink my glass with his and pretended to stab him with my olive spear. 

“Killing me smalls,” Joe laughs. "You get out since last time I saw you?" 

I shrug and look down at his eggplant-colored dress shoes. 

They really are awful. 

“I’m proud of you,” I change the subject. 

“Oh?” 

“I always said you were too good at music to be a lawyer.” 

Joe nods and rubs his nonexistent beard along his round chin. 

“S’true, s’true. Maybe I’ll turn it all in and go traveling with my music.” 

Joe’s smile became a little stiff as he looked at me. 

“How are you doing, Lady?” 

“Oof,” I exhale, taking another sip of my drink, the gin is minty on my tongue and the salt from the olives tastes like tears. “Loaded question.” 

“Let me rephrase that, your honor. How are you doing today?” 

“I plead the fifth.” 

Joe put his hands up and nods, his smile coming back, he knows it’s a good sign if I can joke with him. 

“My time is up here, your honor. Catch you after? Al-co-hol you later….” 

I shake my head at the shameless pun as Joe leaves his drink next to mine on the bar and checks his watch. 

I nodded and pat him on the back as a man all in black comes up to the mic on the little stage in the corner and calls out, “Next up in our set is the wonderful piano man, Joe Abernathy!” 

I clap and holler loudly, maybe a little too loudly. This is a nicer crown than our typical bunch but Joe smiles and winks my way as he sits down at the black upright piano and takes the silver mic close to his mouth. 

I notice it’s pretty much standing room only and beam for him. 

Booing for him my ass, Joe knows this crowd. 

He just wanted me to get out. 

I take another sip of my martini and allow my shoulders to relax. 

Ok, Claire. Unclench your jaw. There we go. Shoulders down. 

See? This isn’t so bad. 

Especially with some liquid courage… 

  
Joe’s dark fingers contrast against the whites of the keys as he presses them down lightly at first and then hits the lower notes with his other hand. 

I down the martini in one gulp as I hear what song he’s about to play. 

Damnit. 

“Ain’t so sunshine when she’s gone….” 

He wrinkles his brow and closes his eyes, shaking his head as he starts to sing the next line. 

“It’s not warm when she’s away….” 

Joe sits up a little straighter as a few in the crowd cheer at his well-worn and mellow singing voice. 

I know he’s my best friend and all but seriously, the guy could quit tomorrow and get a record deal within the week. 

“Ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone. And she’s always gone too long. Anytime she goes away….” 

Suddenly, I feel it. 

My mind starts to slip. 

Fuck. 

Suddenly, I’m smelling cheap cigarettes and watching Joe through the red and blue stage lights at the dive bar near university. 

I’m ten years younger and twice as drunk, a nice-looking young man with dark hair spies me from across the room and sidles over to me as Joe takes the mic. 

“What’s your name?” 

He almost yells in my ear trying to get closer to me. I shake my curls and laugh at him. 

He smiles and I see those damn dimples. 

I didn't tell him my name. 

If only he was a man at a bar who'd made me laugh one time and that was it. 

But it wasn't. 

My life became twisted and entangled with his until I didn't know where I began and he ended. 

I was still extricating myself from the mess he left behind. 

“Fuck you, Frank,” I say solidly. 

Shit that was out loud. 

And here. 

No cigarettes. 

Thankfully, Joe was singng louder now and no one seemed to hear me. Or pretended not to. 

I was drinking alone. I finished Joe’s drink as he finished up the song and moved onto another. He looks over at me in the applause that follows and I raise his now-empty glass to him. 

He’ll understand. 

My chest is tight. 

I feel my shoulders subconsciously clench around my ears and wiggle my jaw a little but it has a vice-like grip on my tongue. 

When will his ghost finally leave? What do I have to do to lay this damn thing to rest? 

I feel like I'm going to be sick. 

Maybe the alcohol was a bad idea, I should have just taken a pre-emptive Xanax like I was prescribed but I figured Joe might want me to socially drink with him. 

Fuck. 

Definitely hotter in here now, the crowded bar area is only making me feel worse. 

I shoulder my way through the crowd and blink furiously at the tears that are edging dangerously close to my lash line. 

I burst out the side door into the alley in between buildings and breathe the cold night air in deeply.

It hits my lungs like a bucket of ice water and feels phenomenal. 

This is how I go out, I think to myself. 

Hunched over in an alley. 

I know I'm not dying. Mentally, I know it. 

But physically my body is doing the thing where it feels like my soul is one twitch away from leaving my skin behind permanently. 

I'm normally holding on by a thread and that thread is growing more fragile each day. 

Today it's as thin as a spider's silk. 

Breathing my way through the panic attack, I mentally curse and shake myself aware of my surroundings. 

I’m not okay with being out alone in the dark like this, but it’s better than being crowded around in there. 

Hopefully Joe won’t notice I’m in the back stifling sobs out here. 

I double over and grip my hands against my waist as I grip my hips and force myself to inhale sharply until this feeling passes. 

I hear the side door grate open like a meat locker and jump at the sound. 

I’m still hyperventilating and the light is too low for me to see much. I hear the scratch of a match and a second later smell the pungent fumes of a cigarette.

I cough. 

Who the fuck lights up with a match nowadays? 

“Those things will kill you.” I say softly, trying to sound calm and like this person didn’t just scare the shit out of me. 

I must’ve scared them back because they jumped slightly, I could hear their shoes on the pavement scuffle a bit as they stepped backwards. 

I didn’t say anything further. 

The man’s voice was low and angry as he replied, “Well, it’s my funeral.” 

You don’t get a death wish, buddy. I have the death wish. It's not a damn club. 

“Yeah,” I say more confidently. “Some people like a little fresh air with their outside ya know. Should try it sometime.” 

“How bout ye quit judging me and I quit talking to ya, eh?” 

Even with a cancer stick between his teeth, I recognize the voice. 

You’ve GOT to be kidding me. 

“Jehoshaphat?” 

“What?” 

“Shit.” I get out my phone and hit the flashlight on it and nearly blind him with it before I point it at the ground.

He’s dressed sharper tonight, long dark, wool coat with the collar flipped up, shielding the awful odious cigarette from the elements. 

I realize I’m raising my voice at him but this is the last person I want to see right now.

His blue eyes blink blindly before adjusting and then widening at me, “Aw shite. It’s the woman with the hell beast in her flat." 

I scan what he's wearing and stifle a chortle unsuccessfully.

“A fedora, really? Are you here for a neckbeard convention?” 

Who the fuck wears a fedora after 2002?

Oh God. 

A wave of nausea joins the panic attack and it's all thanks to his fucking cigarette. 

I turn and cough, struggling to breathe. 

He must think I'm overreacting as hell because I can hear in his tone his eyeroll. 

"Och it's 'no that bad... fine if ye'll stop that damn noise I'll put it out...." 

I wheeze trying to stand upright. 

He puts a hand on my shoulder and I wasn't expecting it. 

It must be survival instinct or some shit kicking in because my panic attack is changing from suffocating dread to PTSD run and attack panic-mode. 

I put my hands to my mouth in an attempt to stop the scream from rushing up to my throat. 

But no luck. 

I am screaming, he is mortified and my phone is pointed to the ground with the flashlight feature on giving the entire alley an eerie illumination like something out of a Boris Karloff film. 


	6. Jehoshaphat and Miss Manners

I choke back on my scream and put my hand over my mouth turning it into a stifled yell instead. 

“Are ye alright, lass?” 

Fuck you and fuck that accent. 

Frank had an accent, a British one and here in the states it was rare to hear. 

I loved it. 

Not my type. Nope. Not anymore. 

I wish Jehoshaphat would shut the hell up. 

I do NOT want to be reminded of Frank right now. 

“No, I’m not fucking alright. Now if you don’t mind, I have a panic attack to attend to. Please… just… stay over there. Mk?” I say stiltedly, waving my hand furiously for him to back away. 

Jehoshaphat crushed his lit cigarette with the heel of his boot into the pavement and frowned at me darkly. 

“Are ye here with someone…Should I call them?”

Great. More pity. Or fake concern. 

If people cared about me more they would be there like Joe, but most of them didn’t give a fuck. 

He just wanted to be polite and pretend to care. 

Why else would he be nice to me? 

I breathed in hard and stood up straight, finally the world seemed to right itself a little. Thank god, it was passing. 

“I can take care of myself, thanks.” I grit my teeth. 

God leave me alone, just let me pull myself together. 

“Are ye always this rude?” He says suddenly. 

I shoot him a death glare but am met with a curious gaze and deadpan face as he looks at me. 

Did this man just ask me DURING a panic attack if I could be nicer? He might as well have called me “Sweetheart”, too. 

My jaw clenches and I bite my words at him. 

“I’m sorry, do women have to be polite all the time?” 

“Ye- well, no. No they dinnae have to be. It’s just-”

“Look, I don’t know you and you don’t know me. I rarely ever call maintenance because I can do things myself.” I straighten up and cock my head at him. 

I’m fidgeting with my necklace and his baby blue eyes are on my fingers as I twitch them nervously around my neck. 

It’s my tell. 

I’m glad I do telehealth therapy appointments now, so my therapist can’t see me picking apart my fingers beneath the computer screen. 

It's a bloody disaster. 

Sometimes literally. 

I fidget when I’m nervous and something about this man makes me fucking scream. 

Nope we’re done here. Absolutely fucking done with Jehoshaphat and this conversation. 

I feel naked in front of him, his blue eyes boring into me like I’m a modern art piece and he’s trying his best to figure out if I’m actually supposed to be in this exhibit or if I’m just a framed hole in the wall. 

The truth is, I’m an imposter. I don’t fit in with other people right now and I fucking know it. 

I never should have come. 

I stick out my hand and wait for him to take it. 

I make my voice sickly sweet as I try to be overly polite. 

Meet Miss Manners, douchebag. 

“Thank you, thank you for coming to check my leak. Thank you for helping me get my cat and now I say goodbye.”

He smirks and takes my damn hand, shaking it slowly. 

I'm not okay with how much my cheeks light up in a red flush. 

I'm not okay with how warm his hand is over my cold one. 

It's gross and gloriously comfortable. 

His eyes light up like my discomfort is cute. 

It’s not cute. 

I’m horrible, terrible, not very good at social interactions. 

Thank my mother for that. 

“It’s been a pleasure, Miss….?” 

“You don’t get a name, buddy.” I retort, pulling my hand away. 

He laughs and grins, “I get a free wet tee shirt show but no name?” 

Nope, not after Frank. 

Not after my panic attack. 

Definitely not after you almost lose my cat-dog by coming over unannounced. 

I scoff in his face and try to push past him. 

Right then the metal door squawks open like a rusty parrot and Joe pops his head out into the alley. 

“Claire!” 

Fuck. 

“Claire, eh?” Jehoshaphat’s eyes scan my features in amusement and he won’t stop grinning at me like an idiot. 

I cringe. 

“There you are, I was worried…Jesus. You ok? Jamie isn’t give you trouble, is he?” 

Jamie. 

For some reason, Jehoshaphat sounded better. 

I could hate a Jehoshaphat 

I raise my eyebrows and laugh loudly in pretense of good humor. 

“Oh-ho… Jamie is it?” 

“Jamie to my friends,” he nods to Joe, and then looks at me “James to you.” 

Ouch. 

But fair. 

I’m still calling him Jamie. 

I don’t play by people’s made-up rules. 

A name’s a name, dude. 

I’m stunned.

“You two… know each other?” I crisscross my fingers in front of me at the two men and want to die on the spot. 

Shit. 

He’s probably going to tell Joe about my meltdown and I don’t want Joe to know I’m really not okay these days… 

I don’t wanna be a burden. 

  
“Piano man? Absolutely.” 

Joe smiles and relaxes a little. He must trust this Jamie guy. 

“Jamie’s the best guitarist I know,” Joe’s forehead is beaded with sweat and it creases a little as he looks at me. “You okay, Lady?” 

I nod and shoot Jamie a meaningful look to keep quiet. 

“Yeah, we’re just peachy out here…” 

Jamie bites his bottom lip momentarily and surveys me thoughtfully as I fumble to turn off the flashlight on my phone. 

“You playing tonight, bro?” Joe changes the conversation. 

Jamie shakes his head, “Nah, I’m here with some mates. Birthday drinks. Said we all come as a decade, this was all I had.” 

“Jamie!” 

A shrill voice called out from behind Joe. 

Our alley was getting crowded. 

Three’s a crowd, four is downright rude. 

A leggy blonde in a 1920’s red flapper dress sidled up to him and slipped up to his side like she was Velcroed there. 

“There you are!” 

She stole his hat and put it on her head with a bubbly little giggle. 

I share a bemused look with Joe as we both scan the couple in front of us. 

Gag me with a spoon. 

Could she get any more desperate? 

I notice Jamie’s hand on her waist and I have an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of my stomach. 

He gave her hip a squeeze and she pulled him into a deep French kiss right in front of Joe and me. 

Could this night get any weirder? 

“Come on, Lady Jane. I have a couple friends I’d like you to meet.” 

Thank God. 

Joe jerks his head back to the bar inside and I couldn’t get in fast enough. 

Anything to get away from Mister women-have-to-be-polite and the leggy blonde that apparently wanted to stick her tongue down his throat. 

I make nice and play cool through the rest of the night. 

I mentally set my “clock” in my head for 40 minutes. 

40 minutes to give this goddamn thing a go and then get the hell out of there. 

40 minutes to not be rude. 

I can be polite for Joe. 

I’m caught in a triangular conversation with a female indie singer with purple hair and Joe and my eyes shift to the decades party in the corner booth. 

About ten people crow around the table dressed as anything from Farrah Fawcett to greasers and to be honest, it looks like they’re having the time of their life. 

All but one. 

I swallow hard as I watch blonde legs all over Jamie’s lap. She’s hanging onto his neck for dear life and ignoring the fact that he is barely smiling. 

Actually he does smile. 

She goes in for another kiss and his blue eyes catch mine staring at him. 

His finely chiseled jaw breaks into a mischievous grin as he kisses her open mouthed, eyes glancing at me before he closes them drunkenly. 

Shit. 

I didn’t mean for him to see me looking. 

At least not gawking like I knew I was. 

He’s so beautiful it hurts. 

How did I not notice it the other day? 

What must it be like to be born that way, like him? 

Hair falling perfectly into place in auburn waves that make my heart skip. 

Wait. 

Why is my heart skipping here? 

Calm down little asshole, you’re broken. 

Maybe it’s the late hour or the two cocktails I’d downed like water, but it was hard to deny that in his vintage styled suit, he was one of the most attractive men I’d ever seen. 

Maybe it’s the fact that I hadn’t been with anyone since Frank, but I feel an ache in the pit of my stomach to see their intimacy together. 

It only reminds me of how I have no one. 

I tried to fill that hole in my life with alcohol and it led to that time on New Year’s. 

Her name was Laura, her blonde hair and perfume made me forget myself and I remember locking lips with her at midnight in the gay bar I felt safe enough attending on my own. 

I saw my first drag show with her and we screamed out the songs together and laughed till we cried, her hand ended up intertwined in mine and she put her number in my phone. 

I fucked that one up, righteously. 

A pang of regret and shame ran through me as I remember how I ghosted her after that. 

It scared me. 

Both my ability to open up and my inability to be close to someone… anyone. 

I’m ashamed of hurting her. 

I don’t want to hurt anyone else. 

Not while I’m hurting. 

Joe walks me to my SUV and I give him a giant hug. 

He hugs me back, I don’t want to let go. 

“Hey hey…. You sure you’re okay, Lady?” 

My nose prickles and I sniff back a tear. 

“Yeah, I’ll be fine.” 

Joe purses his lips and nods understandingly. 

“I’ll be checking on you, Lady Jane.” 

“Don’t you mean, al-co-hol you later?” I smirk as I sit down on the cold leather seat of my car. 

Joe laughs over the door at me and holds onto it for a moment before letting me shut it. 

“Indeed. Drive safe, Lady.” 

“You played wonderfully, really.” I tried to sound okay. 

We shared a smile and I let out a giant sigh as he turned and walked back into The Trinity. 

Just then the gaggle of the decades party came bursting out of the door. 

Jamie stuck out like a sore thumb, heads and shoulders above the rest of the guys. 

Blonde Velcro still stuck to him like she was superglued to his side. 

I rolled my eyes and flip them off in the dark. 

My heart stops as his blue eyes flash at me in the headlights as I turn the key. 

I think he saw. 

“Yeah, yeah. I hope you did see that, Scottish bastard.” 

My heart aches as I drive home to Adso. 

I think about his baby blue eyes all the way home before I chastise myself harshly. 

“Forget it, girl. Rude as fuck. Thinks women should be nice all the time. Plus taken by that trollop. He’s probably some fedora-wearing manwhore.” 

Get. It. Together.

Like the cigarette under his boot, he lit a fire in me I couldn't quite put out. 

I remained glowing, golden and red the rest of the drive home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Claire to Claire


	7. Do I get a sticker now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW
> 
> Brief mention of self-harm
> 
> Also kudos and endless thanks to my Jamie for being beta on this chapter and making sure it flowed for anyone who has never been in therapy before.

I have therapy today. 

Well, now. 

Hah. 

I should be logging on. 

Ok, fine. I’ll do it. 

It’s Wednesday. 

On Wednesdays we wear pink. 

Just kidding. 

We actually take an hour-long lunch and log in for our weekly therapy session. 

I don’t tell any of my coworkers, I just kinda log out and come back a Sad Girl ™ the rest of the day. 

There is a jittery feeling in my stomach unrelated to the three cups of coffee I had this morning. 

My computer connects to Alicia on Zoom and I crack a stupid smile.

“Hey,” I say weakly. 

I don’t know why I try to smile, I guess it’s ingrained in my head that women have to be polite or something. 

Don’t know where I got that idea from…

So I smile. 

Alicia is a warm person, a bubbly, little ball of a woman with purple cat-eye glasses. She likes to take a sip of her tea before launching into her weekly attack on my PTSD and trauma. 

She's in her mid-sixties, old enough to be my mother. 

I look up to her like a mom. 

Or how I imagine I _would_ look up to my mom if she gave a fuck about me as a person. 

I don't even bother wearing mascara today. I know I'll cry it all off. 

I’m never able to keep it together with Alicia. 

She blinks kindly at me behind her purple frames like an owl just waking up for the night. 

“Hey there, Claire. How are you doing this week?” 

I don’t even try to hide it anymore. 

“Same old same old. Had a panic attack behind a bar this week instead of my spot in the kitchen. So I guess there’s that.” 

She pulls out her little black notebook. I hate that thing. It holds all my deepest, darkest secrets and Alicia smiles to herself a little as she looks over it. 

“So you got out this week, huh?” 

“Yeah,” I nod. 

“How did that go? Aside from the panic attack,” she nods and closes her eyes, gesticulating with her hands in a general sense. 

“Okay I guess. I was able to get out and support Joe. I just wish I didn’t have that panic attack, but I mean…. It wasn’t behind the wheel this time. I guess that’s a win.” 

“It is, indeed! I’m proud of you for trying. I know getting out isn’t easy for you.” 

Understatement of the century. 

“So tell me about this panic attack. Anything about the night that seemed to particularly trigger you?” 

I shrug uncomfortably. 

“I don’t know. I guess it was a song or something…Joe was playing…” 

Sometimes I think Alicia should work for the FBI, she's unassuming but a little cougar when it comes to clues and getting the truth out of people. 

“Music. Art, in general, can be a powerful trigger," she nods and I can tell the wheels in her head are turning at a rapid pace, “you remember what we talked about last time?” 

“How I felt stuck?” 

She nods, the silver streak on her right temple catches the light from her office window. 

“Stuck in the trauma, the dread, the feeling you’ll never heal….” 

I swallowed hard and looked down at my fingers as they started their business of picking apart my thumb. 

Yeah, last session was especially hard. 

“We were going over trauma responses and figuring out yours and how to make them healthier for you.” 

She had me try the deep, painful, chest-hurting breaths instead of scraping my forearm with my fingernails… or picking apart my fingers…… or worse. 

Yeah. I know. 

That admission was a fun conversation. Alicia didn't judge me though, instead she told me that even the pain held a purpose for me if I was doing that. 

A release, an escape. A way to silence the mind-numbing noise of my own guilt and grief. 

Alicia goes on, soothingly, “I had a couple of ideas this past week that I think will help you. One is a book I want you to read.” 

Great. Homework. 

“Another is an exercise I want you to do with me today.” 

Okayyyy? 

I secretly love her exercises. 

Get science-y with me, please. 

I’m a cerebral person. 

Show me the science behind what is actually broken in my brain and we can start to fix it. 

The plumbing, the cracks in the foundation. 

Let me get my sleeves rolled up and I’m game. 

Please. 

Tell me why I’ll be sitting at work and all of a sudden I’m taking off my glasses to blink away the tears and breathe through a call. 

This isn’t normal. 

I haven’t been normal in….. 

In five years. 

Since I started the relationship that would mindfuck me into oblivion. 

Erase all traces of my personhood until I was left with this… 

This mess. 

The shambles of a person I vaguely recognize. 

Somehow it was up to me and me alone to pick up the pieces and put myself together again while he got away with it all. 

Of course he would go and die and not have to deal with any of the mess he left behind. 

Typical. 

“You ready?” 

Alicia’s voice is smooth and grounds me. 

I wonder if she knows her presence alone grounds me better than most of the techniques she’s teaching me. 

“As I’ll ever be.” I say dryly. 

“Okay, I want you to get comfortable, you able to sit somewhere quiet?” 

I take my computer with me into my dark bedroom and lie down with the laptop on my thighs. 

I turn on my Himalayan salt lamp and the warm, amber light floods the room. 

“Okay, now I need you to close your eyes? You feeling safe?” 

I nod and sniff sharply. 

Closing my eyes to the welcoming darkness, I breathe in slowly and allow my senses to collect themselves and adjust to the lack of sensory input. 

“Alright. Good. Now what we’re going to do today is an exercise in brain plasticity. Have we talked about this before?” 

I shake my head, “Can’t remember but I don’t think so.” 

“Alright. Brain plasticity is the brain’s ability to change and adapt to different environments. The brain is continually forming new neural connections throughout our lives. I know you know this, but PTSD is a brain-injury. Not a disorder. In and of itself your brain is perfectly capable of making new neural pathways and healing but sometimes we get stuck in the trauma.” 

I nod again, “Huh.”

It always makes more sense when she says it. 

“Every six months, the brain finishes developing a new neural pathway, which is why healing can take so long. After trauma, it takes at least six months to be able to start to heal and cope and understand what’s happened to you.” 

Well, that’s certainly true. After a year I’m still stuck here. 

“I want to show you what I mean by brain plasticity. So we’re here in your room. Do you consider this a safe space, Claire?” 

I nod, for the most part. 

I didn't realize how beautiful neutrals could be until I hit thirty. The café au latte color on the walls is to-die-for. Mixed with my reclaimed wood furniture and cat-safe plants and succulents it was my own little domestic oasis. 

“Now with your eyes closed, you don’t have to do this physically… just mentally. I want you to imagine yourself standing up and raise your arms over your head.” 

I frown and nod slowly, sounds like bullshit but I trust her. 

Okay, standing up, arms raised. 

“Now I want you to picture the room around you. I want you to tell me what you see in your mind. So you’re standing up, arms above your head and looking around. Let’s go… to the right. Turn about 12 inches. What do you see?” 

“My blue computer chair, my white closet doors, part of the window…” 

This feels like a stretch and I have no idea where she's going with this mental yoga....

“Good, good. Okay. How about you keep turning in your mind, let’s go another 6 inches to the right. What do you see now?” 

“Part of my bed…..” 

"Can you turn any farther in your head, comfortably?" 

"Not really," I say honestly. 

“Alright, okay. Good. Let’s turn back to the front and you can put your arms down, mentally.” 

Ok, I’m there. 

“Okay, now when you’re ready let’s open those eyes.” 

I blink and my eyes adjust slightly to the amber tones of my room. 

I breathe in slowly, but my heart is racing a bit. I'm not sure why. 

“Alright, now this time we’re going to do it again but I want you to physically get up and do it.” 

I breathe in and out faster, am I doing whatever it is right? How do I know how it's supposed to feel? 

I put the laptop down on my bed and stand up unsurely at first. 

“Now with your eyes open, let’s turn again. To the left this time. Arms up, let’s move slowly. About a foot or so like before.” 

I turn towards my bed and look to the wall. I can start to see the pictures above my bed that I painted in watercolor. 

Green and blue succulent 8x10 framed prints that I was proud of. 

The black sound bar that I used to pipe in nature sounds for particularly bad nights. Queen or Bryan Adams or The Cure on a particularly good one. 

The details of the ivory walls, little bumps and ridges of the paint where it dried over the plaster. 

“And again six inches more.” 

I turned and began to notice the gray wood grain on the frames to the pictures. It looked like a giant had left its fingerprint there and I visually traced the lines and curves of the wood. 

“Do you feel like you can go farther?” 

I nodded, “Yeah.” 

“Alright, go another foot or so if you can do it comfortably.” 

I do it. 

This time, I can see all the way across my room and I’m not trying that hard. 

“Okay, perfect. Now come back to center and lower your arms again.” 

She’s smiling at me. 

“What?” I say slowly, crawling back into my bed to put the computer back on my lap. 

“What did you notice was different the second time?” 

I think for a minute. 

“Details. I was able to see more details than in my mind. The bumps of the paint, the wood grain on the picture frames.” 

Alicia nodded and also smiled slowly a little more. 

Out with it, woman! 

“Did you notice you went a lot farther than you thought you could?” 

Well. Yeah.

“I was able to see my whole room, when I had my eyes closed I could only visualize some of it.” 

“Exactly. That’s brain plasticity. I wanted to show you that you, Claire, are capable of healing and going farther than you realize. Your brain will heal. You will heal. You absolutely have greater potential to do more than you think you can.” 

I swallow hard against the rising lump in my throat. 

"Your brain is ready and capable of healing more than you think you are." 

Damnit, she’s good. 

Me? Healed? 

The fuck. 

You mean there’s hope? 

Do I get a sticker now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, yes. There will be more of Jehoshaphat in the next chapter ;) 
> 
> But for now.... here's a sticker, Claire. 


End file.
